


Camp Kahkwa

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Series: Family Reunions [4]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brotherhood, Camping, F/M, Family Reunions, M/M, Summer, The Gangs All Here, Wholesome, sunshine and shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 14:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18501082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: The campsite sat on twenty acres of land in rural Pennsylvania owned by a family friend of the Winters’. On Friday afternoon when the boys arrived, Dick gathered everyone in the main building. “Alright men,” Dick announced as Speirs tacked a large map to the log wall behind the redhead. “Here’s a quick rundown of the place...Any questions?"Luz’s hand shot into the air, and a smirk twitched at Nixon’s lips.OR: Instead of having their annual family reunion in the 'burbs, the Toccoa boys head out to the woods for some quality time in the sunshine. Summer fun and shenanigans of all type ensue. Includes: fish bites, dog food pranks, and Lipton's 40th birthday.





	Camp Kahkwa

**Author's Note:**

> I love them. That's all.

That summer marked, among other things, Lipton’s fortieth birthday—and holy fuck, the guys couldn’t believe that this was happening, that they were making the transition into their forties _, the real adult years_ , when turning thirty had been a hell of a hurdle for most of them (there was a well-accepted notion that Bill, Babe, and Luz had only made it that far thanks to Fran, Gene, and Toye, respectively)—, and Speirs wanted to do something special for his husband.

Dick came up with the idea. Since adopting their daughter Cora, Lipton and Speirs hadn’t spent as much time on retreats with the rest of the guys, missing out on overnight hikes, white water rafting, and the like. A lifelong Boy Scout, the men knew that Lipton missed the outdoors, though he adored the time he shared with his daughter, all doting eyes and soft, sweet smiles, and had never voiced a single complaint about it. Still, Dick suggested that the group take a camping trip that summer in place of their annual reunion at Lipton’s and Speirs’s place in the suburbs to allow Lipton some time away from his daddy duties and a chance to reconnect with his more adventurous spirit.

“Two birds, one stone,” commented Nixon, popping a handful of bar pretzels in his mouth. He looked to Speirs, “Carwood enjoys his big day, and you get to avoid hosting the party at your place for once.”

Speirs nodded without hesitation. “Let’s do it.”

The rest of the gang agreed quickly and wholeheartedly, and then it was a matter of securing babysitters and reassuring wives, who wouldn’t be joining that particular trip, that no one would end up in the hospital. Promise.

“Besides,” Harry winked at Kitty. “—we got Doc Roe. Whatta we need a hospital for?”

The campsite sat on twenty acres of land in rural Pennsylvania owned by a family friend of the Winters’. On Friday afternoon when the boys arrived, Dick gathered everyone in the main building. A large pine cabin, it included an industrial kitchen, several long pine dining tables, and a wide porch, which fit four pairs of rocking chairs. “Alright men,” Dick announced as Speirs tacked a large map to the log wall behind the redhead. “Here’s a quick rundown of the place. This—” he pointed. “—is the mess hall, where we are now, and as you can see here, there’s the lake. On the western side of the lake, there’s a ridge. That’s where archery and the shooting ranges are. To the north, on this side of the lake and mess hall, are the cabins where we’ll be bunking. There are six bunks, twelve beds per cabin. Take your pick, gentlemen. This here—” He circled a small square, indicative of a building, between the mess hall and the cabins. “—is the bath house. Running toilets and showers, included.”

There came a slight cheer among the men. Though they could go without showers for a weekend—God knows, Muck and Penk shower with all the regularity of a housecat—, everyone was pleased to hear that there were functioning toilets on the camp site.

“There are laundry facilities, though I doubt we’ll need them,” Dick continued, motioning an area far east of where they were. “There’s also an aid station, generously supplied by Gene here.” A customary round of cheers, accompanied by a few pats on the back, rose around the short Cajun medic. “But let’s try not to put Doc to work this weekend, huh, fellas?”

Suddenly, the mess hall doors opened to reveal a familiar head, covered in a beanie despite the Pennsylvania sunshine. Dick gestured the newcomer. “Men, you all remember Joe Dominguez. He’ll be providing meals this weekend.”

“Hey, Joe, good to see ya, brother,” Bull bumped the man’s shoulders as Dominguez made his way through the crowd toward the kitchen. Likewise, Bill stood to shake the man’s hand, “Hey, pal. Long time, no see. How ya doin’?”

But it was Malarkey’s voice that rose above the chatter the loudest. “Please, for the love of God, no beans.”

Without missing a beat, Dominguez grunted, “Chili tomorrow, Malarkey,” much to the delight of their friends, happy to chuckle at the redhead’s expense. 

“Lunch is at noon, dinner is at seven with campfires to follow each night,” Dick announced. “Those who have special dietary needs, please see Joe about the menu. One last thing. This weekend is about Lip’s birthday, of course, but its also about brotherhood, about getting back to what started all of this in the first place, free from distractions and the outside world. So, I’m requesting that we agree to a no-tech weekend.”

At that, Speirs stood and materialized a large plastic bin from beneath one of the pine tables. Inside were three iPhones and two Androids. “You heard the boss man. Toss ‘em in.”

While a few of the fellas immediately conceded, tossing their phones into the bin without much fuss, there was a general sense of hesitation among the crowd. Dick explained a little further, hoping to assuage their unease. “All of your significant others and caretakers have been given the number for the landline located in this building. Joe Dominguez will monitor the line and pass along any messages in the case of an emergency back home.”

“But what about pictures and shit?” asked Spina, who was notoriously addicted to Instagram and Snapchat.

There came a sigh from the sidelines. Nixon murmured, “He’s got that covered, too.”

Speirs dutifully pulled out a handful of disposable cameras, the kind that they had all used as children and teenagers before handy things like digital cameras and smartphones had been provided for the masses. Dick nodded to Speirs who began to disperse the cameras to a select few.

“Tipper, Skinny, Perconte, you’ll be our resident photographers for the weekend,” Dick instructed. “If you run out of film, let us know. We’ll get you another disposable. Alright, men. That’s the last of it. Any questions?”

Luz’s hand shot into the air. A smirk twitched at Nixon’s lips as the stay-at-home dad asked, in a voice far too sincere, with eyes far too innocent and wide, “Yeah, uh, Professor Winters, do we get extra credit if we’ve been taking notes?”

A few snickers rang out and Nixon watched his husband struggle _not_ to roll his eyes. Before Nixon or Dick could speak, Toye smacked his partner’s head and muttered, “What he means to say is, thanks for putting this all together, Dick. Really, its gonna be a great weekend.”

“Hell yeah, it is!” cheered Babe, grinning dopily.

“Nothing but the best for our boy,” Nixon declared, slinging an arm around Lipton’s shoulders. The man in question gave a light blush, and somebody hollered, “You know what that means…!”

As if on cue, the men began a beautifully off-key rendition of ‘Happy Birthday,’ equipped with ‘cha cha cha’s and all the wolf-whistling a man could handle, which turned out to be quite a lot because Lipton was nothing if not indulgent when it came to his friends. When the ruckus eventually died down, the men dispersed to explore the camp and claim their respective bunks.

A few hours later after all of the boys had chosen their bunks and settled in a bit, Dick and Lipton got a campfire going down in the pit by the lake. Just off the shoulder of the water, the stone firepit sat in a semi-circle of smoothly carved wooden benches and flattened tree stumps. The Toccoa men descended on the pit like locusts, first one, then another, followed by a pair, and suddenly, the entire gang was there, scattered around the half-circle of benches or crowded around the plastic cooler full of beer and soda that Joe Dominguez had brought down from the mess hall. Even Trigger, Tab’s German shepherd, and Sam, Dick’s and Nixon’s chocolate labrador, had wound their furry paws down to the impromptu party by the water.

As Dick and Lipton alternated stoking the fire to life, a couple of the guys lit up some cigarettes and a few others went off in search of sticks to use to roast the hotdogs and marshmallows that Dominguez had also provided. Turned out, an adult campfire was not all that different from a children’s campfire. The evening started off friendly enough, just a bunch of guys sharing a smoke and a beer around a growing fire, but as darkness began to fall and the orange/red/yellow flames of the fire grew to lick the night sky, the casual chatter gradually fell to wayside as the men caught up on all the gossip about the wives and girlfriends they’d left at home that weekend; this then turned into swapping gossip about folks outside the friend group, like what-the-hell-ever-happened-to-Norman-Dike and you-won’t-believe-who-I-ran-into-in-the-Burgh-last-month-fuckin’- _Sobel._

The mention of their collective enemy inevitably spiraled into college horror stories about how pathetic and tragic Herbert Sobel was as a human being, and how Roy Cobb and Norman Dike weren’t much better, either. The conversation then faded into _actual_ horror stories. Luz, always one to captivate a willing audience, told his version of _Invasion of the Body Snatchers._ “Okay,” he announced, face glowing from the firelight against a black sky. “Its like this. On the outskirts of Seattle, okay, there’s this little suburb, and all of the neighbors are really friendly. Like, super friendly. Get it? They're a little _too_ friendly. And so, one day…”  

To follow, Alley just _had_ to tell a story that he heard from a friend of a friend who had a cousin who was actually there—“No, guys, I _swear_ this happened! Really!”—about a possessed dog named Rocket or some shit like that. On the tail-end of Alley’s disappointingly lame ghost story, Popeye hauled out his acoustic guitar and began to strum the first few bars of Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War.” The song requests instantly poured forth from his friends. The country boy rolled his eyes at one in particular and laughed as he replied, “For the last time, Penk, I don’t know no shit by the Backstreet Boys. M’sorry, alright?”

At some point, Nixon disappeared and returned with a long metal grate and a couple packs of steaks “for the adults.” Upon spotting his tell-tale silver flask, Speirs smirked. “That for the adults, too?” Nixon only agreed to share his contraband if Speirs didn’t rat him out to either of their husbands. Speirs accepted the flask with a simple, “I’m no narc.”   

For several hours the men sat around the roaring fire, tossing back a few beers and roasting hotdogs and marshmallows for s’mores—stacked high with extra chocolate for Perconte and Shifty—while Tab and Johnny Martin and Smokey played fetch with the dogs and a couple of old tennis balls. Across the firepit, the men had gradually coupled up—Babe sneaking a kiss from Gene in the glow of the moon, Liebgott’s arm strung across Webster’s shoulders lazily, naturally, and so on. As the evening carried forward, Popeye continued to play music steadily in the background, Buck occasionally stealing the guitar to bang out a Zeppelin cover or two, and all the while, Luz kept going with his haunting campfire stories broken up by random impressions of douchebags they went to college with.

All in all, the whole affair was an alright night and a great start to an even greater weekend.

* * *

Both Saturday and Sunday mornings, Dick, Lip, and Christenson started their days with a 5k run along the various trails that wove throughout the wooded land. Similarly, Webster and Gene began their days with a morning dip in the lake. Each morning, Dick joined them after his run while Christenson went off to shower and Lip retreated to his cabin to wake his husband with little kisses on the tip of the other man’s nose.

The Toccoa boys passed the hours on those hot, sunny summer days in a variety of activities tucked far away from all manner of civilization. The cooler half of their days were spent playing pick-up games of football on the wide lawn out front of the mess hell and hosting ultimate frisbee tournaments that drove the dogs crazy, the little balls of fur dashing back and forth in the grass, furiously trying to catch the flat disks before one of the boys snatched it up. They also headed up to the shooting range to try out a bit of archery.

“I love this bow and arrow shit,” declared Liebgott as he drew back the bowstring. “Feel like Katniss Everdeen, bitches.”

While Webster was pleased on some level that his partner was making a literary reference, the associate professor internally—and, let’s be honest, externally—winced at the quality of said reference. Before Webster could say anything, however, there came a great commotion from the other end of the range as Hoobler narrowly missed shooting himself in the foot.

“What the hell happened?” shouted Nixon. “We’ve literally been here for ten minutes. How, Hoobler? _How?”_

“He was playing with the fletchings,” sighed Shifty, who was the man in charge of the whole shooting range. Hoobler, who had the decency to look a touch sheepish, shrugged. “Still not as bad as that time I shot myself in the dick with a paintball gun.”

Liebgott nodded. He’d been there when that had happened, and it had been _bad._ Liebgott didn’t know a guy’s balls could turn that color—even without the paint. “Hey,” the surly man smirked. “—at least you didn’t die.”

In the afternoons when the sun was at its highest peak, the men would retreat indoors to the mess hall for a lunch of sloppy joes or hamburgers, and much to Malarkey’s delight, there was no chili in sight. After lunch, the men would lounge about in the rocking chairs on the front porch or in low hanging hammocks that Lipton and Buck had brought along. A soft hour or so would pass as the men let their food settle before, almost as one, they would gradually gravitate toward the water.

The rest of the daylight would be spent in the lake. There was a floating dock about forty yards out from the lakeshore on which was built a high dive. Naturally, this meant various high dive competitions, of course. Dick, Harry, and Grant were the elected judges, as they were deemed the most honest of the group. Their scores couldn’t be bought. The first few rounds of the Most Excellent High Dive Tournament of 2018 consisted entirely of the classics—best belly flop, best tuck and straight drives, the armstand dive, and the most interesting twist dive. Then came the One Word Challenge. It went like this: the dive took a total of three seconds to fall, so George Luz would stand on the floating dock at the base of the high dive and the second Smokey or Gene or Skip jumped, Luz would yell out a category like “color,” “fruit,” or “places you’ve caught Liebgott and Webster making out.” Then, the diver had three seconds to shout his answer to the corresponding category before he hit the water and was submerged. This was a game of elimination—and it was a surprise to goddamn nobody when Bill Guarnere, the game’s reigning champion, came away with yet another win.

“That boy’ll never _not_ have somethin’ to say,” murmured Bull, mouth wrapped round a cigar as he reclined on the dock, happily.

Their nights were spent in much the same fashion as the first—a campfire by the water full of beer and hotdogs and marshmallows and Popeye’s guitar and Luz’s ghost stories. On their last night, after the fire had died down, the Toccoa boys had opted for a night swim. Out there in the wilderness, the light of the moon was more than enough for them to see by, and there was something sort of magical about the water at night, everything dark and open around them. The men were thoroughly enjoying themselves—that is, until Martin got bit on the ass by a fish.

“This is the greatest day of my fuckin’ life,” declared Toye as he watched Martin hop across the dock, one hand on his ass, the other curled in an angry fist, shouting and cursing in pain.

“Don’t worry, Johnny!” shouted Harry from the water. “Roe’s coming to the rescue!”

“Fuck you, Welsh!”

It was a weekend full of summer sunshine and sweat, beer and brotherhood—and it was also a weekend full of pranks. On Saturday morning, Tipper, Grant, Alley, Hoob, Smokey, and Shifty had woken to find that all of their hiking boots had been filled to the brim with, what they eventually realized, was Trigger’s dog food. Toye recognized this the revival of a George Luz high school favorite. Then, that same evening, Penk and Malark turned out the lights in the bathhouse while Muck was taking a shit. This in and of itself would not have been so bad if they hadn’t also locked the doors and thrown a lizard inside the stall to keep Muck company in the dark. “I swear to God, the thing almost crawled up my _asshole_ , Don. Its not fuckin’ _funny_ … Okay, it’s a little funny, but I swear to Christ…”

So, yeah, maybe a camping weekend wasn’t such a bad idea.

* * *

Monday morning saw a particularly cool mist settled across the campsite. A soft, cotton candy pink colored the sky as the men slowly woke, dressed, and gathered near the mass hall for a cup of coffee. There was a light spread for breakfast—fruit, a handful of granola bars, and a pan of warm croissants courtesy of Joe Dominguez. A sleepy silence hung around as the boys milled about, happy and lazy after a satisfying weekend in the woods, one which already promised future nostalgia and more than a few fond memories.

Dick, Luz, Bull, Lip, and Buck occupied the rocking chairs on the front porch of the mess hall, each with a steaming mug on hand. Harry and Nix were splayed sloppily over the steps, the former raking a hand through his bedhead curls, the latter rubbing his eyes. Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere were already loading their things into their respective vehicles, as were Skip, Malarkey, and Penkala, the men eager to get on the road with such a long drive ahead. Gene and Webster were enjoying one last swim, taking languid laps around the lake in the early light of dawn while Babe and Liebgott munched on bananas and granola bars on the dock in silence—neither quite the early bird that their partners were.

Shifty, Alley, Skinny, Tipper, and Smokey were still snoozing in the cabins, so Popeye grabbed his guitar and strummed an acoustic rendition of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son” as he strolled between the bunks to wake his friends. Tab and Martin were playing fetch with Trigger and Sam behind the mess hall, Speirs watching fondly—the stony man had a notorious soft spot for animals—from the steps of the bath house as he sipped his second cup of coffee for the day. Spina was down at the aid station, packing and clearing away the medical supplies so that Gene didn’t have to. Perconte was supposed to be helping him, but instead, the short Italian was too preoccupied attempting to fix his wristwatch which he had discovered that weekend was not, in fact, waterproof. Grant, Hoobler, and Christenson were busy cleaning up the campfire site, collecting the various cigarette butts, empty beer bottles, and plastic waste from the s’mores materials that littered the half-circle of benches and tree stumps around the firepit.

While the men loved their annual family reunions at Lip’s and Speirs’s place—there really was something to be said about how goddamn lucky they all were, lucky that not only were they all close enough in brotherhood and location to get together annually, but also that their wives and girlfriends and husbands and children all got along—, each and every man that morning, in some aspect or another, was thinking about how much their group needed this. Needed time together—no wives, no kids—to get back to what the hell made them all friends in the first damn place. And that slow, sleepy Pennsylvania morning, each and every man at that campsite was grateful.

It took a few hours for everyone to get their shit together for departure.

Once the cabins were empty, Bull and Malark did one final sweep of the bunks to make sure no one had accidently left some their shit behind. With the various cars and trucks loaded, the archery range locked up, the boating equipment secured, the firepit tidied, and the kitchen shut down, there was only one thing left to do—say goodbye and go on their respective ways.

The hugs were endless, the rough pats on the back—a classic sign of affection—even more so. Tipper swore he would have the photographs from the weekend developed from the disposable cameras soon and would mail copies to everyone, and Gene promised to check in on Martin’s fish bite in a few days to make sure it wasn’t getting infected, or worse, that he wasn’t turning into a mer-man, to which Martin replied, “Oh, fuck off, Doc.” Those who, like Hoobler, lived too far away for the convenience of short trips promised to text and call with semi-frequency. Those who lived closer, like Smokey, Christenson, and the South Philly crew, made plans to meet up again in a few weeks for a beer or two, or twelve. The guys that didn’t have kids told folks like Lip and Speirs to kiss Cora, told Toye and Luz to hug baby Henry, told Babe to help keep an eye on all five hundred of Bill’s hellacious offspring—including himself.

And then, when the hugs and goodbyes were all said and done, one by one, the men began to drive away from their little haven in the forests of rural Pennsylvania until only the founding five were left.

“Well, I better head back,” murmured Harry with a sigh as he sipped from a thermos full of the last of Dominguez’s morning brew. “Kitty’ll kill me if I’m late. We’re having dinner with Alice’s new boyfriend tonight.”

His friends collectively winced in sympathy, but it was Lew who reached out to clap the shorter man on the shoulder. “Best of luck, friend. Drive safe and…whatever.”

Dick rolled his eyes affectionately at his husband and finished for him, “Drive safe, Harry, and let us know when you make it in, alright?”

Harry gave a mock-salute. “Yes, sir.”

“See ya, Harry,” said Lipton with a smile. “Give Kitty and Alice our best.”

Harry nodded, popping open the door of his modest sedan and dropping into the driver’s seat. With a quick shout of, “Yeah, will do!”, the curly-haired man was off, nothing but dust beneath his tires and the blink of taillights behind him.

“We should probably head back.” Lipton spoke the words to no one in particular as his gaze followed the back of Harry’s car until it disappeared around a curve into the thick of trees. Blinking, Lipton murmured, “We told my mom we’d come back and get Cora by early afternoon.” Which everyone knew was code for: I miss my daughter, and I would very much like to go see her now, thank you.

“Of course,” Nixon muttered, leaning against his husband’s SUV. Their dog was already happily situated in the backseat, the windows rolled down so the chocolate labrador could stick his head out into the fresh air. Sam _loved_ car rides, and as Nixon lovingly patted the dog’s head, he added, “We should probably head out, too.”

Lip hugged Nixon first, asking something about dinner later that week, before he turned to Dick and said, with a bit of a sheepish smile, “Thanks a lot for organizing this.” He glanced at Nixon. “—both of you. It was great. I had a really nice time.”

Dick nodded. “Of course. Happy birthday, Car.”

As Lipton strolled over to their truck, Speirs hung back a moment to look Dick in the eye and thank him personally for arranging the gang’s weekend at the camp. He shook his friend’s hand and said, honestly, “Thank you, really, Dick. This meant a lot to him—and to me.”

Dick smiled earnestly. He _loved_ Carwood and Ron, and the redhead was more than happy to give his friends a much-needed respite from the city and all the responsibilities of domestic life. Dick squeezed Speirs’s hand firmly, the grip familiar in his own. “I was happy to, Ron. Honest.”

“Oh, Christ, don’t you two go getting all sentimental here. We’re literally doing dinner at ours on Thursday,” called Nix, shooting a pointed look at his husband and their neighbor. He gestured in the direction of Lip’s retreat. “Weren’t you listening? We just set it up. Jesus.”

From the backseat of Dick’s SUV, their labrador barked, paws on the window, head up and eager. Nixon took that as his cue to get in the car, shouting over his shoulder, “Ron, see ya in a few days! Dick, c’mon, Sam’s getting restless…”

Speirs smirked, eyebrow raised pointedly, but Dick decided not to raise to the bait. Instead, he gave a clipped nod. “See you Thursday, Ron.”

Speirs’s smirk slid into a smile. “See ya, Dick.”

* * *

Eleven months later, the boys—Dick and Lew and Lip and Speirs and Bill and Babe and Gene and Harry and Tipper and Alley and Toye and Luz and Randleman and Martin and Smokey and Skinny and Muck and Penk and Malark and Buck and Hoob and Grant and Popeye and Spina and Perconte and Webster and Liebgott and Shifty and Christenson and Talbert, along with their wives and husbands, their kids and their dogs, their girlfriends and boyfriends—would all come back together to do it all over again.

One big, happy, family reunion.


End file.
